Archaic figures haunt your somnolence,
Akin to spires of some forgotten hold
That, now all dark and dense,
Was once immense –
But fell to chaff like memories untold!
O spirit, dire silence is your chain.
All sonance is curtailed by deathless wood;
Would death, the septic stain,
If vulgar noise returned? Perhaps it should!
A lattice, foliage-weaved, strains tight the sun
To ichor. All around the lazy leaves
Embrace the peat below, and all as one
They climb their old hosts’ trunks like plated greaves.
O, sallow beauty, let new life arise;
Your pallid skyline, sharp and black incised
Could give fresh spirit to our own old eyes!